My Beheaded Valentine
by Sen Graham
Summary: Ireland shows France the authentic Valentine, or…at least what's left of it.  Dark Humour and Fluff!


My Beheaded Valentine

Summary: Ireland shows France the authentic Valentine, or…at least what's left of it. Dark Humour and Fluff.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Eirinn. I present to you, my wild Irish rose, a token of my love."

France got down on his knee and presented a red rose to Ireland, causing every woman in the vicinity to collectively sigh at the scene which oozed with romance. France certainly looked the part of a lover on Saint Valentine's Day. His wavy blond hair was perfectly kempt, and his blue eyes sparkled playfully in the noon light. He wore a long winter overcoat to keep the cold and snow at bay with a fashionable silk scarf around his neck. He winked up at the short girl, who looked nothing like the part of a girl being wooed. Her tangled, rebellious red hair was swept back in a messy braid and her freckled tattooed face showed a mix of shock and fascination. She was dressed stereotypically Irelander, or rather a stereotypical old Irish man, complete with a newsboy cap, tweed jacket, sweater vest and a pipe hanging out of the corner of her mouth. France grinned slightly over her apparent distress. This was what Valentine's day was all about. Teasing, wooing, flirting, spreading love, and hopefully getting lucky.

"Stop it…you're making a scene…" insisted Ireland, looking around at the women giggling at her.

"I cannot stop Irlande, my heart moves me so…j'ai besoin de vous…" he purred.

"Not unless there's a ring on my finger you don't," said Ireland bluntly, "And I bet you're going to use that line on Scotland later, aren't you?"

"My love is something that ought to be shared don't you think?" asked France.

"And…you don't find it the least bit distasteful to pursue a brother and sister of the same family?" replied Ireland.

"Not in the least, in fact, forbidden or taboo love is all the more attractive. Doesn't it sound romantic Irlande? A soul torn between his love for a brother and sister while the restraints of society and their jealousy pull everything apart!" exclaimed France with a melodramatic crescendo.

"No," said Ireland.

"You're no fun…" mumbled France, "But it seems a shame, I think it's sad knowing there are girls out there who don't receive tokens of love on Valentine's Day."

"W-who told you I don't!" huffed Ireland indignantly.

"Your brother…the squinty, smiling one, I can't remember his name, the unsettling one," said France.

"Wales…." grumbled Ireland. She pulled a small daybook and pencil from the pocket of her jacket, "Note to self…murder Wales…maybe next Tuesday…"

"Irlande, you need to get into the spirit of things," said France, placing the rose in her hand, "A day for young love to flourish."

"I am in the spirit of things," insisted Ireland, touching the rose petals softly, "I just got out of mass at Whitefriar Street Church."

France sighed, "Wrong spirit entirely…try to be less literal and more romantic. Think of the most romantic thing you can do on Saint Valentine's Day. Dinner, a movie, dancing, let your imagination run wild."

Ireland paused and thought, twirling the rose in her hand, "If I did have someone special with me on Saint Valentine's Day, in the nineteenth century, there was something I told myself I would do…"

"Go on," said France, pleased with this development.

"You know, Ireland is home to the original Valentine, I always thought if I was with someone on Valentine's Day, I would give him a private viewing," said Ireland softly.

A private viewing certainly had double entendres, and to France, sounded very promising indeed. Ireland flushed softly as she took France's hand and led him through the streets of Dublin, "I don't…show off my treasures like this for just anyone you know, but we've been friends for a long time…showing them like this can be dangerous…can I trust you with them?"

France gave Ireland's hand an affectionate squeeze, "Of course you can, I would guard them with my life."

Ireland's flush grew from happiness and nerves, as well as anticipation and the cold. It had been an unusually cold winter, with more snow than anyone had anticipated. France seizing the opportunity to wrap his arm innocently around her shoulders as they wove through the alleys and short cuts Ireland knew so well. She gasped cutely as he pulled her in closer. France grinned, "Only for warmth, I assure you."

Ireland nodded and twirled the rose nervously as they took a short cut through the campus of Liberties college, "N-not long now. Just a left on Bride, and another left on Peter and we're practically there."

"No need to rush," assured France, grinning like a cat about to eat a canary, "Why not take our time? Enjoy each other's company?"

France let his hand lazily stroke the crescent moon tattoo on Ireland's cheek, knowing full well the place was particularly sensitive to touch. Ireland shivered from the cold and the hand on her cheek and leaned into France slightly. France grinned, enjoying the feeling of the rebellious tomboy pressed up against him, trembling softly in his arms. He liked how Ireland was comfortable enough with him to no longer defensively threaten him, yell obscenities and had gradually opened up to him. There were days when he found it hard to believe three hundred years ago France had given Ireland her first kiss, and in return Ireland had given France a knee in his stomach and a fantastic right hook in the face.

"You've become such a striking young woman," France observed, "If only you would stop dressing like an old man."

"Why? You dress attractively enough from both of us. Thanks to you, I can slack of," Ireland teased with a grin, breaking away, "Besides we're here."

Ireland pulled out a lanyard weighed down with keys from her pocket and approached the door of Whitefriar Street Church. France frowned slightly as he had not been expecting to be brought to a church. Then again, perhaps Ireland had brought him there so they could marry in secret, or hide from prying eyes. France's smile slowly returned to his lips as he thought up romantic scenarios. The two of them, taking secret, private vows, sharing kisses on the balcony…

Ireland unlocked the door and motioned for France to come inside. He looked about, as Ireland flicked on the various light switches and light up the Church. It was a beautiful building with a lovely combination of roman arches and ornate columns supported by flying buttresses. Not quite the model of the gothic style, but quite close. Coloured light mingled harmoniously with the artificial as it leaked in from stained glass portraits of saints.

"Close your eyes…you get to see this up close and personal…" said Ireland, her green eyes smiling happily.

France smiled and closed his eyes as he heard Ireland's steps race up the nave of the church. He wondered what she could be doing. Perhaps changing into a spare set of robes in the sacristy to come back to him robed in an alter boy's white? Perhaps she was rushing off to find a priest. Before he knew it, France heard her approach him again, her steps reverent and careful. France could hardly contain his excitement.

"Alright…you can open them."

France opened his eyes to find himself face to face with an ancient skull, and promptly fainted.

* * *

France opened his eyes and looked around. He was still in the church, his head cushioned in someone's lap, a light breeze was concentrated on his face and his hair felt a little wet. As his vision came into focus, he saw Ireland looking down at him with concern clearly written across her face and an empty font for holy water.

"What happened…?" asked France, "There was…a skull…"

Ireland bit her lip and looked away blushing, running a hand soothingly through France's blond hair, "I wanted to show you the…uh…authentic Valentine."

Ireland stood back nervously and helped France to his feet, brushing the dirt from the floor of the Church off of him, "Sorry…I wouldn't have showed you the relic if I thought you'd faint like that…"

"At any rate, the day isn't over, and now that we're all here we can celebrate properly…without dead things," said France, stifling a laugh, "Though you owe me for giving me that fright."

"You're never going to let me live this down are you?" asked Ireland, blushing as red as her hair.

"Never," replied France kissing her forehead, "But I'll love you despite it, my sweet rose of Erin."

Ireland punched his arm playfully as they left the church to find and explore Valentine's Day festivities in Dublin, leaving the ancient skull of the saint to rest peacefully in it's gold and glass case.

* * *

_The Skull of Saint Valentine is housed in Whitefriar Street Carmelite Church in Dublin Ireland. On Valentine's Day, mass is dedicated to young couples and a special procession with the relics of Saint Valentine is given. As for Saint Valentine himself, very little is known about him, though theories and legends abound. One of the most popular, associated with Saint Valentine's Day is that he was imprisoned for marrying young couples and was sentenced to death. Before his execution, he befriended his jailer's blind daughter and before his death gave her a note and restored her sight. The first thing she saw when she was cured was the note which read, "From your Valentine." Most traditions give February 14th as the date of his death._

_Review? _


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